


pantaloon

by Control_Room



Series: The W-lly Franks Twins [17]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Demons, F/M, Fortune Telling, Happy Ending, Kindertransport, Nazi Germany, other dark shiz, trans love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-08-01 03:37:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16277069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room
Summary: Grant was forced to leave Germany, and turns to Willy years later to find out what happened to those he left behind.And to remember how he became who he was.





	pantaloon

“Grant, are you sure?” Willy swallowed, his hands trembling as Grant pushed a wad of money into them. He wanted to shove the cash back, he wanted to tell Grant that the future wasn’t meant to be seen. But he needed the money, badly. He wanted the best of the best for him. Joey denied him a raise. Wally spent his cash like it was nothing, mostly on trinkets and pretty things for Thomas, who couldn’t get enough of his boyfriends pampering him; who would always get flustered and giddy. ~~And he wouldn’t take from his brother in any case~~. He already had restarted working for Jericho, and he couldn’t take a third job, not with the girls coming into his life so soon. He was spread thin, and he couldn’t get thinner. Johnny mentioned Grant paying well for odd jobs, but Willy didn’t know he meant odd as in strange. Like having his fortune told, apparently. Grant asked him what things he could do, and then asked him if he knew how to use tarot cards. He told him yes before he could stop himself. Then he questioned about future readings. He shamefacedly replied yes to that as well, looking at his shoes. Grant smiled, relieved. And here he was, with **over** _five_ **_thousand_** dollars in his palms, Grant before him with a flat and determined expression. “F-futures are tricky things an-an’ ya… ya might not like what ya see….”

 

“I need to know,” Grant told him, his green eyes tired and cold. Shivers crawled down Willy’s spine, leaving him with goosebumps. “I… I just have to know what happened to them all. You can meet me in my office tomorrow.”

 

“Happened to _them_?” Willy asked with a quieted gasp, suddenly worried that he had bitten off more than he could chew. “Gran’, seeing other people’s pasts is even more tricky than personal futures.”

 

Any fortune teller, any real one, at least, could tell you that seeing one’s own future is nearly impossible, and seeing others’ pasts, especially if the person is not present, was literally beyond the scope of the greatest.

 

“Yes. I know, everyone I’ve asked said the same thing,” Grant offered a minuscule smile, clapping his shoulder. “However, I trust you, Franks. I believe you are capable enough to do this for me. It means… it truly means a lot to me, more than all the numbers and all the money in the entire damned world. Hence your pay.”

 

“I… I’ll try my best, sir.”

 

Grant nodded, and he walked out, leaving Willy staring at the money in his hand. He swallowed roughly, fingers wrapping around the cash, heart beating. This was going to end so damn badly, and he could just feel it. He sighed.

 

“I hope ya know what yer doin’, Grant,” he murmured, closing his eyes. He knew he needed to go prepare. Ugh, there was yet another problem with fortune telling; he’d be blurting random facts of other people’s futures for half a day before. “‘Cause I sure as hell don’t.”

 

* * *

 

The cards were so heavy in his hands. The last time he used them was so long ago. Wally glanced at him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

 

“You alright there, bro?” he asked him, Willy’s startled eyes meeting his own. “Tarot cards? Haven’t seen those in a while. I thought ya quit because of… the incident? You know, the one you were up chuckin’ blood for a week. So, is someone payin’ ya fer it? Payin’ well?”

 

“You’re goin’ ta be tackled by Thomas in a minute,” Willy let slip, clamping a hand over his mouth, muffling a “Yes.”

 

“And a fortune tellin’, eh?” Wally taunted, grinning. “Who’s the client?”

 

“Mister Cohen,” was the muted reply. Wally blinked, eyebrows creasing and about to ask a question, when Thomas came out of nowhere, charging him down, the two tumbling to the floor. Willy took this opportunity to dash, ready to go to Grant and get it over with. He bolted down the stairs, crashing into Norman. The tall man caught him from pitching forwards and set him on his feet. “Th-thank you, Mr. Polk. You will enjoy watching Sammy get thrown into the bass drum, and it will be made better by the fact you’ll have it on tape.”

 

“W- wha- huh?” the startled projectionist asked intelligently. But Willy had already vamoosed, his smell of lavender even heavier than prior. “Well… I guess I will.”

 

“There you are!” Lacie called after Willy. His face instantly morphed into ‘o shite’, as he turned to face hir. “I wanted to apologize for…” she gestured behind herself, where the destroyed ride lay, “you know. The whole Speed Demon escapade, if ya get my meanin’.”

 

“No worries,” he quickly said, and he tried to stop the next words from coming out, and he failed. “All ya dream’s’ll come true, in the least likely manner.”

 

“Wot?” was all she managed as he ran away, flying down the stairs as though the very devil was chasing him. “Odd….”

 

Bertrum pursed his lips, then called over his new housemate (God he wanted to use soul mate, but not yet…). Then they continued to work on rebuilding the wreckage of the roller coaster, hir pondering the meaning, Bertrum stealing little glances and rambling about his own greatness and the pity he held at the ride’s desolation, using his words to ignore his embarrassed blush and ruffled expression.

 

“‘Ello Mr. Cohen,” Willy panted, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “I’m ready if you are, which I know you are, because I can see me telling you your fortune in a moment.”

 

“That’s one correct prediction,” he dryly replied, sitting him by his desk, the radio softly playing some sort of music. “Now let’s see if you can do the rest. How do you… you know.”

 

Willy held out his hand, the radio changing to a quiet static. Whispers could be heard coming from it.

 

“ _He’s back?_ ”

 

“ _He shouldn’t be calling on us…._ ”

 

“ _He_ **_is_ ** _our friend, right?_ ”

 

“ _I thought he learned his lesson._ ”

 

“ _He didn’t deserve to watch what we did to his body… we were cruel_.”

 

“ _We helped him at the train station, though…._ ”

 

“ _The phoenix is back? Interesting… let’s_ **_assist_ ** _him, haha._ ”

 

“ _No, we’ll do it right._ ”

 

“ _Yes, tear him to shreds!_ ”

 

“ **_Please, gentlemen and ladies and all in between, calm. We owe him this much for our rest._ ** ”

 

Grant stared at the radio, then at Willy’s slightly trembling hand. The young twin was murmuring, possibly asking the voices for another chance.

 

“Put your hand on mind, and ask a question in your mind,” he instructed Grant, his dark skin gaunt and petrified. Grant put his hand, palm up, on Wilbur’s, and the twin smiled shakily, turning his hand over. Grant thought of the question that was on his mind for years; what happened to everyone he left behind? Before the kindertransport? What happened to them? Laughter, dark and malicious, rang from the radio, chanting ‘ _dust, dust dust,_ ’ Willy’s eyes seeming to shrink in fear. “Grant, anything but that!”

 

“ _It’s too late!_ ” the voices roared. “ _Tell him, tell him, tell him! Tell him, or else! We’ll do worse!_ ”

 

“No!” Willy shouted at them. His shadow flickered, then detached. Grant stared in terror, wondering what voodoo mess he got himself into. The shadowy Willy grinned ferally, running his hands over the desk, high pitched and twisted piano notes able to be heard as it ‘played’. “I-I… I’m so so sorry, Grant.” He choked on his voice. His shadow smiled at him viciously, an angered taunt. Willy sucked in a breath, pulling out the cards. He flicked his wrist, showing two cards revealing a young Grant’s visage and an old man’s. “Your… grandpa died, when you were nine…”

 

The old man shifted into the hanged man, then the lunatic.

 

“They say he had lost his mind,” Willy forced, hating every word leaving his mouth. Grant stared, open mouthed, in horror. The Grant on the card started crying, almost in a cartoon manner, another card pulled up and taking the lunatic away. There was an armband on the new card’s figure.  “You have learned, way too soon, you should never trust the pantaloon.”

 

“Now, it’s your turn, to be alone,”

 

Laughter, cards were taunting the young Grant with his long hair, dragging him away from the mirror and a pair of scissors. Willy pushed all the cards together, fanning them out once more, depicting another young face, a pale oval, soft and sweet.

 

“Sori…” Grant murmured, reaching toward the card, tears filling his eyes. “She’s dead, isn't she?”

 

Her card shifted into another face, breaking Grant’s heart.

 

“Find a wife…” he grit his teeth, the card’s picture wavering, “ _in her_ ,” his breath became ragged as it changed back to an older version of the girl, shouts and outbursts ringing from the radio, his shadow glaring, but he smiled, “and build yourself a home.”

 

He turned morose.

 

“You are tired,” the Grant card folded and slumped.

 

“You are hurt….” A tear appeared over it’s heart.

 

“A moth ate through your favorite shirt,” an abandoned suitcase in an empty and decrepit train station, open and rotted. The clothes he and Sori traded, him giving her dresses and skirts, she giving he suits and pants.

 

“And all your friends fertilize,” red droplets landed on the table, Grant looking up to see Willy crying blood as the cards changed to boys and girls sobbing by the train, not allowed to board. “The ground you walk….”

 

“No…” Grant breathed, looking at familiar faces, being lead away by red armed monsters. “No! Issac! Chana! No, no, no….”

 

“You’ve seen too many stare downs between the sun and the moon in the morning air,” Willy spoke rapidly, as though he was trying to get it done with, wiping the blood dripping out of his eyes.

 

Grant’s card looked over smokestacks where the sun rested beyond, then turned his back and boarded a ship, a ticket clenched in it’s card hand, and a small mangy suitcase in the other, him trying to get a job and being rejected time after time before he turned to the streets, selling wares at the wrong prices.

 

“How you used to hustle all the people walking through the fairgrounds,” Willy smiled a little, “You’ve been around so long you’ve changed your meaning of a chair now,” Grant shifted, how could he not? “because a chair now, is like a tiny island in the sea of all the people,” Grant being pushed and shoved, moving to the other coast, “who glide across the very surface that made your bones feeble,” a neonazi rally, Grant punching many in the face and being taken away by police, his release from jail and his accounting degree, “the end can't come soon enough but is it too soon?”

 

A dripping clock, much in the style of Dali, appeared over the cards.

 

“Either way you can't deny you are a pantaloon.”

 

Grant looking at himself in the mirror, grabbing the scissors and cutting all his hair, tears dripping, throwing off the skirt and feminine blouse and throwing them into the trash, making a binder from fabric and elastic (pls trans friends get a real binder if you can it is not the 1900s) changing into a suit and smiling through tears for the first time. He was finally who he really was.

 

“You don’t like to sleep alone, it's colder than you know,” Grant huddled in the corner of his bed, shivering, “'Cause your skin is so used to colder bones.”

 

“It's warmer in the morning,” sun peaking through the window after a sleepless night. “Than what it is at night.”

 

“Your bones are held together by your nightmare and your frights,” smoke stacks rising behind him as he slept.

 

“You are tired,” looking for a job again, struggling to eat.

“You are hurt,” being denied a job for being ‘born female’.

 

“A moth ate through your favorite shirt,” finding a hole in the binder and finding someone to make a real one for him, him getting the job at Joey Drew’s studio.

 

“But all your friends… they fertilize… the ground you walk,” skeletal hands reaching up to him from beneath him, Grant glancing down in reality to make sure it wasn’t truly happening. Willy choked, shaking his head, the voices in the radio giggling. His shadow grabbed him by his throat, and he screamed out: “SO YOU’LL LOSE YOUR MIND!”

 

The music cut, and he tumbled to the ground, groaning and gasping, the cards scattered. He grabbed Grant’s garbage bin, throwing up in it, the older man disgusted to see blood.

 

“Those twins, Benjamin and Dina… they were killed by Mengle,” Willy groaned, vomiting again. “David tried to run away and was shot.” More blood rushed from his throat. “Illana was raped and burned…” he was gagging. “Rachel got typhus…” the bin smelled like metal from the blood. “Please, Grant, I can’t do anymore, it’ll kill me… Michael was gassed,” his shadow slowly attached itself, wincing. The radio screamed. “N-no more….”

 

“ **_You broke the rules,_ ** ” the radio yelled at him, shackles slinging out to grip his shadow’s wrists, snapping him forward and back, dragging him to the wall. Fear was written all over him, in fact, he was shaking with it. “ **_You need to pay for it._ ** ”

 

“No, she was alive, I jus--”

 

“ **_CHANGED THE FUTURE!_ ** ” a rang from the radio, all the voices in unison, a many voiced, single bodied entity. A shadowy claw hit him across the face, leaving four red scratches. “ **_THE ONLY RULE! What will we do to you, we wonder? Open your chest and take out your lungs and organs again, and put them back? That was fun last time, and he was coughing up blood for a week! No, we should do something new this time! How about decapitate him and chop him into bits and put them back together!? Or peel him like an onion! Dude, that one was just gross. Fine, then how about break all his bones? That one sounds cool. Let’s do it!_ ** ”

 

“No no no! Please! God no!” Willy shrieked, his arm twisted behind his back unnaturally, lifted off the ground, legs kicking uselessly and the tears having streaked his cheeks renewed. Grant finally snapped into action, lunging forwards, tackling Willy out of the shadowed grip. He trembled against the larger man, the radio returning to music and the ominous aura fading. He whimpered; “Are they gone? I-is it over? Please tell me it’s over, I don’t want to be torn a-apart again…. I’m sorry I failed you, Grant.”

 

He hiccuped, sniffling, blood tears dripping again. He hid his face, moaning apologies.

 

“No, you did great!” Grant told him, pulling his hands away from his face. The dark man looked awful and miserable. Grant suddenly wished he paid the boy more. “Let’s go see Shawn, alright? C’mon, can I have a smile?”

 

Willy forced a smile, pushing himself to his feet.

 

“There we go,” Grant encouraged, passing him a tissue. It was soon red. Grant stared at it. “So. I go crazy, huh? Great.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, rubbing his arms, pulling down his sleeves. Grant wasn’t sure if it was entirely from the cold. Then a resolution appeared in his eyes. “I ch-changed what was supposed to happen, might as well do it now, Mr. Cohen. W-Will you come with me? Not to Shawn. To Sori Aronheim.”

 

Grant stared. He hadn’t heard that name in so many years. He stood sharply, and smiled with such happiness. Willy smiled as well, and the two ran up the stairs, people shocked at Grant’s speed and joy. Everyone knew it was nearly impossible to make Grant happy at all, and seeing him laughing and spinning up the stairs felt like an out of place dream. (It was, but was reality now because of what Willy had done). They ran out before Joey could ask where they were going, Willy leading Grant, his shadow before him (though the sun was as well). They came to a slightly broken down part of town, and as they approached an apartment building, Willy’s shadow returned to normal. They entered, Grant looking at the names list to find her’s, remembering doing the same after the war when the POW lists were released. He pointed, Willy nodding, going up the stairs with him. He found he was gripping the dark skinned man’s hand in anxiety. Willy knocked gently.

 

“No solicitors!” a german accented voice called from behind the door, almost with fear. “Who’s there?”

 

“Ma’am, my name is Wilbur Franks,” Willy calmly said, hoping to soothe her. “I have someone with me who you’ve missed.”

 

“They’re all dead,” she whispered. “All of them.”

 

“Ms. Aronheim, please open the door,” Grant said softly in his gravely tones. The door flung open, a pale and oblong face staring at him, in shock, light peach lips barely parted. “Sori.”

 

“Grant, you’re alive!” she cried out, leaping into his arms. “Good heaven, you’re alive!”

 

“I thought you were dead, too,” he whispered into her blond long hair. “You look beautiful.”

 

“And you handsome,” she giggled, wiping away tears. She hugged him. “Mama always said we would get married one day.”

 

“How does next week sound?” Color flushed into her face, painting her prettily as she stared at him. He knelt on one knee. “I meant to do this before we parted, and I’ve always kept it on me… Here is your Mama’s ring, she gave it to me before the kindertransport took me away. Sori Aronheim, will you marry me? I have a house and a job, but I want a wife. I want my wife, who took care of me when people yelled I was a girl, the wife I comforted in her sorrows as her classmates mocked her hair and dress, I want to marry you. Do you?”

 

“Of course! Yes, yes, yes!” she sobbed, kissing him. Willy held in a squeal of vicarious joy. She looked at him, then at Grant, wiping her tears, as he put the ring on her finger. “And who is this?”

 

“He… he’s the one that found you for me,” he told her, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “If I wouldn’t have partially adopted Kim and selected him as my best man should I ever get married, I would like you to be the ring bearer.”

 

“Mr. Cohen, I would love to,” Willy smiled softly. “I am glad that your future is yet to come.”


End file.
